Love in Isolation: Six Book Complete Set

Chapter 13-1

DAY 7

DAY 7I’ve been at the Roxbury cabin for a week, and somehow, it feels like a month has passed. Though it hasn’t been horrible, it’s been a drastic change from my normal routine.

My daily schedule used to consist of two to four classes, meeting up with friends for lunch or a quick shopping trip, and then studying for a bit before Zane and I went out for dinner. On the days I only had a couple of classes, I’d work out or go to a yoga class with Kendall. We’d also do spa days every week that consisted of pedis, manis, and body waxes. Massages were a bi-weekly adventure, and my hair would get cut or colored every four weeks. If the paparazzi are going to take pictures of me, the least I could do was try to look put together to avoid their criticism, but that didn’t always work. They’d catch me off guard, then blast rumors. Oftentimes, I wouldn’t feel good enough based on what they wrote, and my self-esteem would take a hit. Regardless of their opinions, I took so much for granted, and now, I kinda miss my old lifestyle. I don’t know if things will ever be like it was before. In a few months, I’ll be graduating with my undergrad degree, then I’ll start my postgraduate classes. Eventually, I’ll take over more responsibility in the company while I finish my master’s, and then I will shift to a higher position. I shouldn’t complain, but I’m grieving everything I was accustomed to.

But it could definitely be worse, so I’m counting my blessings. I remind myself this isn’t forever. It’s temporary, and if Ryan and all the other essential workers can risk their lives and work on the front lines, then I can suck it up and stay here for as long as it takes.

After my embarrassing tantrum in front of Eli yesterday, I know I’m slowly losing it. Being trapped here should be f*****g easy. I’m safe. I have everything I need and more, but I’m going stir-crazy without being able to see my classmates, professors, friends, brother, and parents.

I didn’t anticipate the emotional aspect. I’m pretty stable, considering all the s**t I’ve had to deal with in my life, and I just wish people knew the real me.

real The media never highlights the positive things I do. They never talk about how I donate my time to help charities, attend fundraisers, rally for women’s rights and equality for all, and I even proposed grants for underprivileged students so they could afford to attend NYU. Unfortunately, the tabloids have created a persona that’s not me, and I’m not sure if I’ll ever have an identity of my own. The biggest disappointment is knowing Elijah grew up thinking those things about me too. Though I haven’t always presented myself in the best way, I’m still human and make mistakes. And I can admit when I’m wrong or I’ve overreacted.

I felt awful for the way I treated Eli yesterday, so that’s why I went into the living room. Besides being hungry, I wanted to see if he was downstairs so I could apologize. Instead of ignoring me like I deserved, he brushed it off and made me the best damn grilled cheese I’ve ever had. As we watched his weird but equally entertaining documentary and ate our dinner, the fire crackled. It was the most relaxed I’d been in days. The setting felt romantic, but after the way things ended earlier in the day with me on my knees under the table, I was too embarrassed to sit on the couch next to him.

Eli’s the most forgiving person I’ve ever met. He didn’t force me to admit my wrongdoings, so I want to thank him and return the favor.

It won’t be much, but I’m going to try to make breakfast this morning and hopefully smooth things over with him. If we’re going to get through this together, we can’t argue like we have the past seven days.

Chanel rolls onto her back, waiting for me to give her tummy scratches. The sunlight beams through the drapes, and I know if I’m going to beat Eli to the kitchen, I need to get moving.

“C’mon, girl. We can’t stay in bed all day.” I pet her for a moment, then push off the covers.

As soon as I stand, I hear a weird noise. A loud, continuous thumping echoes and when I peek out the window, I see Eli by the shed chopping wood. He’s in dark blue jeans, a college sweatshirt, and wearing a beanie with his hair down. Simple but somehow, so damn sexy. Bruno runs around barking, happier than ever, and buries his nose in the snow as he eats it.

I’m mesmerized as I watch Eli pull his arms back and strike the log, splitting it in half. He makes it look so effortless. Without him here, I’d be f*****g doomed. Even if Zane hadn’t broken up with me, we might’ve lasted forty-eight hours without calling our parents to rescue us. I appreciate Ryan sending Eli here more than he’ll ever know. Otherwise, I’m not sure what I would’ve done.

I head to the kitchen and am relieved when I don’t see breakfast already made. He probably doesn’t expect me up this early, which is perfect. I can ace college exams and outsmart professors who’ve been teaching for decades but ask me how to make an omelet, and I become a freaking moron. But hell, I’m determined to learn.

Digging out the egg carton, shredded cheese, and ham, I set everything on the counter, then grab my phone to search for a YouTube tutorial. Undoubtedly, someone’s made an instructional video on how to properly do this.

I’m relieved to find a decent one by an actual chef and get started. I dice the ham steak first, then c***k three eggs into a bowl and whip them with a fork. The instructor says to use an eight-inch pan, and when I dig around the cupboard, there’s at least three different sizes. Shamelessly, I picture Eli’s c**k and figure out which one is eight inches at how big he is.

Next, I turn on the stove and add the vegetable oil and butter to the pan like I’m told. “That’s a lot of freaking butter,” I murmur when I see how much coats the bottom.

Once it’s hot, I add in the whipped eggs. It sizzles and the oil flicks up and burns my finger.

“f**k,” I hiss, grabbing a towel, then rewind the video, knowing I missed a step.

I’m confused as hell and quickly dig around in the drawers in search of the same utensil used by the instructor. Realizing we don’t have one, I grab the next best thing, which looks like some kind of flipper device.

Good enough.

As I move the eggs around like he is, it splatters and burns me again.

“Ouch! Goddammit,” I growl, stepping as far away from the stove as possible while still somehow reaching the pan. I keep listening to the video and try to do what he says, but honestly, this is a mini-disaster waiting to happen.

“Next, you’re going to carefully flip the omelet, and while sometimes it breaks, just roll with it and flatten it out,” the instructor continues.

“Yeah, easy for you to say,” I mutter, stepping closer and trying my best to flip the damn thing. It goes as expected—half flipped, half smooshed. I try to even it out so it’s level and the other side can cook.

While that happens, I add in the ham and cheese, then allow it to cook for a few more minutes.

Once it looks done, I grab a plate and try to slide it on there without dropping it.

“Well, that looks horrendous.” I set the pan to the side and stare at the saddest omelet I’ve ever seen. I add more ham pieces and cheese on top so he won’t notice how badly I botched it.

Grabbing the loaf of bread, I slip two pieces into the toaster. Once it’s ready, I slather on butter and set them next to the heaping mess on the plate.

Bruno comes charging in just as I place the dish on the table. Eli follows, and we lock eyes. The intensity behind them has my entire body burning with desire.

“Morning,” he greets, carrying a stack of wood in his arms. “Did you…cook?” He sniffs, then grins.

“Yes.” I quickly clear my dry throat. “Well, I tried.”

triedHe blinks, then chuckles. “Smells good.”

“Hopefully, it’s edible. I wanted to make breakfast to repay you.”

Eli walks in farther and goes to the living room, then drops the wood by the fireplace. He pulls off his gloves and sets them on the island, noticing the huge mess I’ve made.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says softly. “But I’m starving, so I appreciate it.”

“It’s on the table,” I tell him. “Do you want some coffee?”

“Sure, I’d love some.”

He sits down and dives in, moaning as he chews. I make him a cup of black coffee, and when I bring it to him, half of the omelet is already gone.

“This is really good, Cami,” he mumbles around a mouthful. “You really made this?”

“I have the oil burns to prove it.” I chuckle. “Admittedly, I had to watch an instructional video. Don’t judge me.”

Eli licks his lips, holding back his laughter, but there’s amusement in his eyes. The whole thing is pretty hilarious. Poor rich girl, who’s twenty-two, can’t cook to save her life and has to research the simplest recipes. Regardless, I’m determined as hell to take advantage of this situation and learn some useful basic skills.

“No judging.” He holds up his fork, taking another large bite. “It’s delicious. In fact, now that I know you can cook, I’ll be expecting this every morning.”

My head falls back with laughter, but his encouragement warms my heart. It’s nice to hear that it wasn’t a complete epic fail.

“Baby steps,” I mock. “There are one-minute how-to-cook videos on t****k, so I might be able to learn a second dish before this is all over.”

“I have a super easy one called toad in a hole. It’d be really hard to screw that up.”

I furrow my brows. “Toad in a hole? Where you fry the eggs in the middle of a piece of bread?”

He confirms with a nod.

“Then you mean egg in a basket.” I fold my arms, challenging his weird name. I’ve never made it, but our chef did when Ryan and I were kids.

He scrunches his nose and shakes his head. “Toad. In. A. Hole,” he emphasizes slowly. “Is the correct term. Fight me.” He smirks.

“That doesn’t even make sense. If you’re going with an animal, wouldn’t it be chick in a hole?”

He snickers, shrugging. “Aren’t you going to eat anything?” he asks once he realizes I don’t have a plate.

I c**k my head, pursing my lips. “It was hard enough making one omelet. I’m not pressing my luck again.”

“Cami.”

“Stop, I’m fine. I wanted a smoothie anyway.” I slide the chair back and stand.

“Let me make you something as a thank you for breakfast,” he urges. “Please.”

“No way!” I scold, walking to the kitchen island to clean up. “I made you that as a thank you. You can’t thank me for thanking you.”